


Charles Dickens Was a Schmuck

by laughingacademy



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-18
Updated: 2010-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-13 18:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laughingacademy/pseuds/laughingacademy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray held up one hand. “I’m sorry, did you just say that Charles Dickens slandered the Inuit?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Charles Dickens Was a Schmuck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [innocentsmith](https://archiveofourown.org/users/innocentsmith/gifts).



“What the f--!”

Benton Fraser, who had managed to doze off despite every impediment the overcrowded airport could throw at him -- the ancient, sagging vinyl seat; the reek of grease from the hot dog stand ten yards away; the flickering fluorescent light overhead; the ceaseless rumble of dyspeptic travellers trudging past, towing their wheeled suitcases; the whines and shrieks of bored or overstimulated children; the endless loop of tinny carols that was periodically interrupted by barely intelligible announcements of flights arriving, boarding, or, more frequently, getting cancelled -- was jolted back to consciousness by Ray Kowalski’s stifled exclamation. “What’s wrong?”

Ray looked up, the scowl he’d been aiming at his paperback book melting away. “Oh, hey, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“That’s all right.” Fraser stretched and rolled his shoulders, grimacing at the popping sounds that resulted. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on you.”

“No problem. We’ve got at least another half hour to wait, and I had Mr. Dickens here to keep me company.” The frown returned at half strength. “Though I’m starting to think I’d be better off with Stephen King. I mean, look at this!”

He handed Fraser the book, an anthology titled _Stories for Christmas_. It fell open to the offending page. Fraser noted the title in the header, “The Wreck of the Golden Mary,” and then focused on the passage Ray was pointing to.

> This, as well as I can tell it, is the full and true account of how I came to be placed in charge of the lost passengers and crew of the Golden Mary, on the morning of the twenty-seventh day after the ship struck the Iceberg, and foundered at sea.

 _“That’s the end of the story,”_ Ray said, teeth gritted. “I read through forty pages of the folks on this ship -- the _Golden Mary_ \-- running into an iceberg, piling into the lifeboats, drifting across the open sea, freezing, starving, the angelic little blonde girl dying, her mother freaking out, this creepy old guy freaking out because he thinks that since the little girl died they’re all doomed to Hell, and meanwhile the captain is beginning to succumb to delirium and exhaustion. But I’m thinking, hey, the survivors will get picked up by another ship, or they’ll drift into a harbor, or it’ll all turn out to be just a nightmare, because it’s a Christmas story, so automatic happy ending, right? Then the captain dies and the first mate assumes command and _that’s it._ End of story. Literally. What the hell, Charles Dickens?”

“It doesn’t seem like a tale calculated to raise one’s spirits,” Fraser agreed. “Although I suppose it might foster a sense of gratitude in the reader, assuming he or she were someplace warm and safe.”

“Well, I guess I’m grateful that we aren’t travelling by boat tonight. On the other hand, I’m going to spend the rest of my life wondering if those poor bastards are still adrift in the middle of nowhere. I should have stuck to ‘A Christmas Carol.’” Ray riffled the pages of the book. “Anyway, I’m going to take a break. You wanna borrow it?”

“No thanks, Ray. I don’t much care for Dickens.”

“Really? Why not?”

Fraser rubbed his eyebrow and took a breath. “I find much of his writing mawkish or twee, his method of rendering dialect annoys me, and he delivers his morals with all the subtlety of a shovel to the head. Furthermore, he slandered the Inuit.”

Ray held up one hand. “I’m sorry, did you just say that Charles Dickens slandered the Inuit?”

“Well, he referred to them as the Esquimaux, but yes.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to explain that to me. But first, I am going to get coffee. You want any? Or tea?”

“Tea, please. Thank you.”

Ray ambled off in search of caffeine. In his absence, Fraser directed a frazzled businesswoman to the nearest travelers’ lounge and saved a small boy from choking on the head of his sister’s Barbie doll. A few minutes later, he picked up Ray’s book, flipped through it, read, “I humbly ask your pardon, my lady, but _an’t_ I something different from a great girl?”, winced, and set it back down.

Ray reappeared, bearing beverages. “Here you go. Lapsang souchong. Thank God for Starbucks.”

“Cheers.”

They toasted each other with their paper cups, sipped, and sighed in unison. Ray licked a splotch of whipped cream from his upper lip. “Right. Dickens bad-mouthed the Eskimos because...?”

“He thought that was the best way to defend the memory of Sir John Franklin and the other members of the 1845 expedition. In 1854, Dr. John Rae, an employee of the Hudson Bay Company, delivered a report to the British Admiralty which included testimony from Inuit who had encountered men from the _Erebus_ and the _Terror_. Their accounts indicated that some of the survivors had resorted to cannibalism.”

“So, what, Dickens said they were lying?”

“Worse -- he published an article in his magazine, _Household Words_ , accusing the Inuit of killing and eating the sailors themselves. To his credit, he later printed a rebuttal by John Rae.”

Ray snorted. “Yeah, and I can guess how much good that did. Some backwoods Canadian doctor versus probably the most popular writer in the British Empire.”

The scratchy rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” that had been playing over the PA system broke off as a female voice, foggy with fatigue, began to read the latest announcements. Ray looked up sharply. “Was that our flight number?”

“I think...yes. They’ve moved it to another gate.”

“Aw, man...”

The next twenty minutes were spent jogging to the adjacent terminal, jogging back to their original terminal when the gate was changed again, frantically searching for their boarding passes (finally found tucked inside Fraser’s hat), then joining the cattle line to the passenger boarding bridge.

“Ray,” Fraser murmured as they shuffled toward the jet.

“Uh huh?”

“I just wanted to state for the record that if the plane goes down, and I’m killed but you survive, you have permission to eat me.”

Ray rolled his eyes and handed their passes to the flight attendant at the door. “No offense, Fraser, but I think I’d raid the pantry and the snack carts, first.”

“Oh, of course,” Fraser said, as he started edging down the aisle. “But if it were necessary --”

“Yeah, yeah, I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Charles Dickens really did publish "The Wreck of the Golden Mary" (possibly as a framing device for tales by other authors, including Wilkie Collins, which were not included in my hardcover copy of _Stories for Christmas_ ), and he really did write that members of the Franklin expedition "[might have been] set upon and slain by the Esquimaux ... We believe every savage to be in his heart covetous, treacherous, and cruel."
> 
> "A Christmas Carol" is still a great story, though.


End file.
